Sherlock looked back. “It sure is. Ruth’s with him.” She looked back to the thick traffic ahead of them. “Basara has no idea what he’s getting into once he gets to the other side, Cal. If he exits out of this traffic, he could be dumped onto the traffic circle at the Lincoln Memorial. He won’t get through there without stopping, not with all the cars circling, not to mention all the tourists around it.” She started to tell him to be careful, but she didn’t. Cal was in Dillon’s class. She turned to see Dillon’s red Porsche on their bumper, Ruth leaning out the passenger window, her Glock in her hand. Dillon was letting them take the lead.
This is madness, Kelly thought, as she shot a look down at the Potomac flowing fast beneath them, to what the sign had informed her was Theodore Roosevelt Island on her left. She looked over at Cal, saw his eyes were focused and calm, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. He knew what he was doing. She felt her heart pounding loud and fast, not in fear, but in exhilaration, and saw herself at seven years old, skiing down a black diamond, her mother screaming at her from behind. She stared again at Basara, weaving in and out of bridge traffic six cars ahead of them.
Cal followed the Camry off onto Constitution Avenue, watched it veer right again toward the river at the first access road. Sherlock was right, he had no idea he was headed straight for the Lincoln Memorial and its traffic circle right up ahead. Cal roared up behind the Camry, barely missing an oncoming car, sitting on his horn in the circle. There was a construction site up ahead, cut off from traffic with big concrete blocks. He forced his way past two cars on the inside of the circle, calculated the speed he needed, and struck the Camry’s left rear panel. The Camry careened sideways into the concrete blocks and went airborne into the construction equipment. A couple workers nearby dove for cover. The Camry struck a backhoe, rolled once, and once again, spraying mud and splintering a construction horse.
“Hold on!” Cal slammed down on the brakes, sending them into a spin. The SUV slammed into one of the construction blocks, sending smoke pouring from under the hood. They all stared beyond at the overturned Camry. The driver’s door was shoved open and Basara, blood streaming down his face, rolled out and came up to his knees. He saw them on the other side of the concrete blocks, cars stacked around them at an angle, their blaring horns filling the air.
He raised his gun but saw they were blocked in, and ran across the traffic circle toward the Lincoln Memorial and its crowds of tourists.
Sherlock and Kelly were out of the SUV, running after him, weaving through tourists and traffic. Kelly held up her creds and yelled, “FBI agents!” every few steps, but a father didn’t jerk his small child out of Kelly’s path fast enough. She tripped and went down. Sherlock was ahead of her, saw Basara running toward the Lincoln Memorial, people parting in front of him at the sight of his gun and the blood running down his face.
Please, don’t let him grab a hostage.
She yelled, “Everyone down!”
Basara heard her, stopped, and she knew he was going take a teenage girl standing on the steps, but in the last instant, he turned, deaf to all the screaming people, and his eyes met Sherlock’s. He fired three shots, and the last one hit her in the chest. Sherlock staggered back with the god-awful pain. For an instant she couldn’t breathe. She fell to her knees, wondering blankly if her ribs were broken under the Kevlar. She flattened herself onto her stomach and forced herself to calm, held her Glock steady with both hands, her eyes never leaving him. Before he could fire again, she got off three shots. She watched them strike his neck, his shoulder, his chest. He froze on the wide step for a moment, his eyes locked to hers before he collapsed and tumbled down the steps.
She jumped to her feet and yelled, “Stay back!” as she ran to him, kicked away his gun that had fallen to the first step. He was lying sprawled on his back, at an angle on the steps, his chest heaving, blood fountaining out of his neck. She dropped to her knees beside him.
She heard Dillon shouting, but she didn’t look away from Basara.
His eyes were filming over, but still he whispered, his words thick with blood, “I wanted to bomb you to hell.”
“That didn’t work out for you, did it?”
He licked the blood off his lips. “I can’t die. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
His head fell to the side and his eyes stared up at the sky, seeing nothing now. He was dead. It didn’t make up for Nasim’s murder, but it was all they’d get. Sherlock stared down at him, aware now of a dozen people beginning to crowd around her. She heard Dillon’s voice ordering them back. Kelly came running up to fall on her knees beside Sherlock, Cal on her heels.
Sherlock rose slowly, Basara’s blood covering the front of her white shirt, and felt Dillon’s arm go around her.
It was over.
SAVICH HOUSE
GEORGETOWN
Tuesday night
By the fourth verse of their sing-along of “The Little Kid with the Greatest Mom,” Sean was finally down for the count. It was a country-and-western song Savich had written for him when he’d been two years old. The words weren’t all that good, but then again, neither was Sherlock’s voice. It wasn’t a problem. Sean didn’t know any better. They stood together, looking down at their sleeping son. Savich kissed her temple. “Welcome home.”
She turned in his arms and pressed her cheek against his neck. “I hated being away from you and Sean.” She gave a little laugh. “I’ve told you that half a dozen times since I walked in the door.”
“Keep saying it, makes my heart settle down. I don’t know who was happier to see you, Sean or Astro. It was me, actually.” He pulled her tight against him again.
“I always had agents around me, Dillon, you know that.”
“You could have been under a blanket of agents and I’d still feel the same way.”
She reared back, touched her fingertips to his face. “I feel the same way about you, but it’s over now, finally over. Basara is dead.” She blinked. “Hard to believe it all started less than a week ago at JFK.” She saw Nasim’s face, Marie Claire’s face, and turned it off. “The thought of Basara using terrorist acts to cover up his assassinations—murdering hundreds of people for the sole purpose of murdering one—and all for money. I think about all those people now dead because they happened to be riding the TGV in France. And what if he’d succeeded in bombing Saint Patrick’s and Saint Paul’s? I wonder how many years this goes back? How many people he killed? He was a psychopath, Dillon, evil to the core.”
“He’s dead now, his evil with him,” Savich said, and thought of how close she’d come to being his next victim. “As to the millions of dollars he’s got stashed in accounts in Switzerland, we’ll find them.
“You know what I can’t get over? Basara would still be alive, still be in business, if he’d used his money and his contacts to disappear when he had the chance. But he couldn’t accept losing. He needed someone to blame, and he picked you, Sherlock—a woman, no less—and made you into his nemesis.” He shook his head, felt the fear for her well up again from deep inside him, tamped it down. He kissed her, held her tightly. “Welcome home, for the twelfth time. You’re exhausted, sweetheart. You ready for bed?”
He was right, she’d been so tired she’d thought she would pass out, but not now. No, not now. She gave him a slow smile, took his hand, and led him to their bedroom. He was big and warm, and she loved him to the ends of the earth.
Savich stripped down to boxers and a T-shirt in under thirty seconds, but when he turned he saw she was lying in the middle of the bed, fully clothed, sound asleep. She never woke up when he undressed her, slipped her nightgown over her head. He looked at her beloved face for a very long time before he turned out the lights and went to sleep.
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